


Gearshift: Drive

by Cygrus



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mechanics, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-10
Updated: 2016-09-10
Packaged: 2018-08-14 07:25:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8003686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cygrus/pseuds/Cygrus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Struggling to understand the delicate balance between living his life and focusing on work, a tired adult meets a reckless mechanic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gearshift: Drive

Another three-hundred dollars for them that month. A little farther out of the hole.

“Another round over here!”

“Got it!”

He drummed his fingers against the smooth granite countertop and thought of the past month’s bills. He had used too much electricity. He would have to cut back on that.

The football game that played in the restaurant didn’t reach his ears. He wasn’t sure when he had stopped enjoying the sport, but he was pretty positive that it was around a week after he had started this job.

“Lance.”

Another three-hundred dollars. He could probably bump it up to four-hundred, if he just worked overtime.

“Lance.”

It wouldn’t be fun, but it was all in the pursuit of happiness. He had to remind himself of that.

“Lance!”

Heart nearly leaping right out of his chest, Lance turned to the voice, his stomach curling when he found his manager standing behind him with his brows furrowed and a tired look on his face. He held a platter in one hand, his other on his hip.

“Uh, yeah, Carl?” Lance wore a wary smile, then flinched as the platter was shoved against his chest.

“You’re not being paid to watch customers,” Carl said. “Get to work.”

Holding the platter with a tight grip, Lance withheld all the harsh words he wanted to spew right there and plastered a smile onto his face. “Yes sir.”

Ducking his head as he shuffled away from the tired man, he stepped out into the jungle of a restaurant, his nose scrunching up as the familiar scent of their cheap buffalo wing sauce drifted by. The greasy burger and fries that sat on his platter looked about as appetizing as his grandmother’s favorite porridge.

He allowed himself one exhausted sigh before putting on the mask he had mastered ages ago, one of a poised and kind young waiter who was absolutely fine with whatever inane complaint one of the customers had.

He stepped over stray feet that stuck out from booths and from under tables, grinned at familiar faces that affectionately called out to him, and shared understanding glances with his coworkers as they passed each other. It was typical and repetitive and just an absolute pleasure.

In his twenty-five years of life, he wondered if something had happened to bring him here, placing him in a chain restaurant and leaving him asking where he had gone wrong.

There was no need for him to question it, though. He knew the moment like he knew the back of his hand.

Jumping when someone suddenly slapped his back and drew him away from his thoughts, Lance looked up at the tall trucker, gruff and muscly and a little sweaty, and he laughed weakly. “Oh, geez, Tucker… You’re back from Alabama already?”

“Y’know it, kiddo! Always great to see my favorite lil’ guy!”

Lance bit back a snide comment and acted as flattered as he possibly could, then escaped to table six, his heart falling when he found it filled to the brim with middle-aged men who worked at the nearby high school. Their balding heads glistened in the light.

“Burger and fries,” he announced, setting the plate in front of the man who raised his hand. “Tough day at the job?”

“You know it,” the man muttered, ready to go off on some tangent about an idiot punk who stuffed one of the gym’s toilets with failed tests and backed it up.

Lance listened and nodded sympathetically when the guy seemed to get particularly heated, but he didn’t mention that he would have rather been dealing with some misguided teenager than standing in that overpacked restaurant. He glanced towards a TV screen when there was a sudden cheer from the men who crowded around it.

One of the men in the booth chirped, “You guys always play the big games, don’t ya?”

He looked to Lance expectantly, waiting for an agreement, and Lance barely recognized him as the school’s football coach. Grinning and nodding, Lance said, “You know it! I just love when they…” He trailed off, his mind going blank. “When they… Get a touchdown. Yeah.”

The four men all grunted and nodded in understanding, and Lance used the chance to escape. He told them that if they needed anything, he’d be right there to help them, and they waved him off with pleased grins.

Really, the big game stopped being big when they replayed reruns of it every damn night, but he couldn’t very well say that to a customer. His smile began to waver as he headed back to the kitchen, the clangs of pots and pans so familiar now that they had stopped hurting his ears ages ago.

“You look wrecked,” a coworker laughed, and Lance would have usually thought her giggle was cute, but it ended up just melding into the rest of the background noises.

“I _am_ wrecked.”

Two hours later, when dinner rush had finally finished and they were closed up for the night, Lance leaned against his broom and took in a long, deep breath. He let his muscles relax for the first time that entire shift. A younger girl passed by, patting him on the back with a cheery grin.

“Dinner is always fun, ain’t it?”

Lance laughed and looked away from her. “Yeah, it’s totally great. The highlight of my day.”

As he took to sweeping, he bitterly thought to himself that a Friday night dinner rush was probably the _last_ thing he’d put as the pinnacle of fun in his journal. When his older sister had worked at a diner back in the day, she never complained when she got home, but he wished that she had. It would have helped him a lot if he had been more mentally prepared.

Sweeping a few straw wrappers into his dustpan, Lance looked to the clock and grimaced when he saw that it was nearing midnight. His next shift was at nine in the morning, and he probably still had an hour of cleanup to help with.

Making a mental note about how strong his coffee would have to be the next day, he returned to focusing on the task at hand, keen on getting out of there and into his bed.

“Hey, Daniel,” he called, getting his coworker’s attention as he bagged up the trash in his dustpan. “Take this out to the dumpster, would ya?”

Daniel hummed, then shook his head. “Carl said to make you do it.” He approached Lance and put a sympathetic hand on his shoulder, singing, “Who’s the garbage boy~?”

Lance grunted and shrugged the hand away. “Dude, shut up. I’m telling you, Carl has it out for me.”

“Anyone with the name Carl would.”

The two snickered into their hands at the off comment, and Lance began to shuffle away, but Daniel stopped him again.

“Hey, you need a ride home tonight? You came on your bike, didn’t you?”

It was a kind offer, but it only served to make Lance’s heart skip a beat. He pretended to mull over it for a moment before shaking his head and smiling at Daniel. “Thanks, but no thanks. I’d rather not leave my bike chained up here, y’know?”

Crossing his arms, Daniel nodded, but he didn’t seem satisfied. “Okay, sure, but you gotta accept our generosity once in a while, man.”

“Then treat me to dinner sometime~.”

Lance grinned, then headed for the kitchen and the back door that lead out of the restaurant, grabbing two other trash bags on his way. He passed by Carl, who watched him with a hollow look, and Lance did all he could to avoid that piercingly dull gaze. He knew exactly what it meant.

“Hey, wait,” Carl said, grabbing the back of Lance’s shirt and keeping him in place.

_Here it comes_ , Lance thought, glancing back at Carl. “What’s up?”

Letting go of him, Carl grunted, “I got a favor to ask.”

Favors. Lance’s favorite.

Drawing his lips into a thin line, Lance gave Carl a once-over before slowly nodding. “Okay, go ahead.”

“Take my next four shifts for me.”

The “favor” was more like a slap to the face. Unable to speak, Lance was shocked that someone would even ask this out of him, especially when everyone in the damn place _knew_ he had been working for two weeks straight now. Was this even legal? Who the hell was this guy to ask Lance to cover for him?

His manager was the correct answer.

“Uh…” Lance glanced away and tightened his hold on the trash bags, worrying his bottom lip. The desire to refuse burned a hole in his heart, and he knew he had every right to, but he also knew that it was either him or one of the various college students working there. They were already tired enough as it was.

Knowing he had lost, he frowned and looked to Carl again. “Okay… Okay, sure, but why?”

Carl scoffed. “None of your business, kid. Just take the extra money. You need it, don’t you?”

Quiet, Lance stared at the man before him, then lowered his gaze to his scuffed up shoes. He always knew it had been obvious to everyone, but he hated that he had been the one to make it so obvious. He couldn’t deny it, though, because it wasn’t like anyone was actually here for the fun of it.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Yeah, I need it. Thanks. I’ll handle it, so just relax and… Do whatever you’re doing.”

There was a sudden shift in Carl’s mood as he slapped Lance’s back and grinned at him. “Well, I always knew you were a good kid. Don’t let me down.”

Carl was quick to leave the room right after that, as if he could tell that Lance was contemplating taking back his agreement. Left alone, Lance muttered a curse to himself and loosened his grip on the trash bags, his fingers starting to ache.

“A good kid,” he repeated quietly, a bitter laugh slipping out. “How many times have you told me that in the past damn year?” A stinging sensation burdened the rims of his eyes and he blinked it away, then hoisted the bags up. “Whatever. Screw him.”

Managing to get the door open, he headed into the dark back alley, the brick walls towering forebodingly over his head. It wasn’t exactly his favorite place, but anywhere aside from that restaurant was a breath of fresh air.

Cars passed by on the street next to the alley, and the distant sound of police sirens somewhere in the city reached his ears. They were familiar, but not in a bad way, and he took the much needed moment to lean against a wall and breathe out a groan he had been holding in all night.

It wasn’t easy, and it never had been. This wasn’t where he had wanted to be when he was a child, speaking of his big dreams to his older sister and smiling when she laughed and encouraged him with a ruffle of his hair, saying that he could be anything he wanted.

He slid down the wall and hid his head in his knees, biting his lower lip and feeling the impending exhaustion slowly creep towards him. He was totally wiped, and he knew that it would all be worth it in the long run, but getting there was the biggest problem. He almost wasn’t sure if he could actually make it to that point.

A cool breeze blew past him and ruffled his short hair, and the lingering stench of garbage at the end of the alley reminded him that there was still work to be done. He sighed, then stood up, brushing off his pants and stretching his arms high above his head before grabbing the bags again.

Dragging his feet along the pavement as he approached the dumpster, he whistled softly to himself, numbers and dollar signs dancing through his mind. His stomach began to ache from the terrible smells that drifted past him, and he tossed one bag into the dumpster, groaning when he realized that someone else hadn’t even bothered to put the bags from the night before in there.

A small pile was beginning to surround the dumpster, so he dusted off his hands and leaned over, throwing away one after the other as he muttered about how he had to do all the work around here. This wasn’t what he had signed up for at all. (The real reason was actually the employee discount.)

Heading around the dumpster, he grimaced at the other piles that had been conveniently hidden from sight. Whoever had done this must have been really eager to get home, not even daring to think about the consequences it would have for some other worker. Lance would find them, but first, he had to fix their mess.

Cracking his neck and rolling up his sleeves that had begun to slip down his arms, he stepped forward, but paused when he stubbed his toe against something much harder than a trash bag. Looking down, he squinted when he vaguely saw the outline of something lying underneath one of the bags, but he couldn’t make out what it was in the dark. He dug in his pocket for his phone, turning on the flashlight.

Immediately, all color drained from his face and he jumped back with a particularly loud yelp, slapping his hand over his mouth as he pressed his back against the wall, wanting to get as far away from the motionless, upright shoe as he possibly could.

“Okay Lance,” he breathed, “it’s just a shoe. Just a shoe, man. There is absolutely, _positively_ , no foot in that shoe.”

Except for the fact that shoes couldn’t just lay with their toe pointed to the sky on their own. He whined pathetically to himself, then mustered up whatever small amount of courage he had and reluctantly stretched his leg out, prodding at the shoe with his foot. When it only budged a little and didn’t move from its spot, he felt the despair and confusion hit him like a tidal wave.

What was he supposed to do in this kind of situation? That shoe was absolutely attached to something, and that something was absolutely not moving.

“Oh God, oh Jesus.” He wanted to panic, yell for help, but who the hell would hear him over the noise of a city? “Ohh my God.”

Knees weak, he sat down, his mind racing with possible solutions, but all of the various paths led to only one option.

He had to see if the foot that the shoe was attached to was attached to anything else.

Now, he had taken science classes back in the day. No big deal! Dissecting frogs was no big deal. They were just dead, disgusting little creatures. Surely humans were no different.

Swallowing down a lump in his throat, he put a hand to his forehead and laughed. “Oh my God,” he whispered. “Fuck. I did not sign up for this. This wasn’t in the damn training manual.”

How was he supposed to even handle a dead body? He tried to think back to all the old crime dramas his mom watched, but nothing really stood out in his mind. They were all fake anyways, so what good would that even do him? Teach him how to fall in love with the nearest and most convenient person?

Whatever. It was do or die, he supposed.

Breathing in until his lungs were filled to the brim with air, he covered his mouth and stood up, approaching the body in the slowest possible manner. He wasn’t about to get jumped by a zombie. Not today. Any other day? Sure, but he’d at least like to be prepared first.

Reaching out, he wrapped his fingers delicately around the strings of the garbage bag and began to move it aside. The sinking feeling in his gut worsened, and he clenched his eyes shut, hearing the rustle of the bag as it fell onto its side.

He waited for what felt like an eternity, beads of cold sweat rolling down his back. He didn’t want to open his eyes. That idea was probably the worst thing he could possibly do, but he didn’t have much of a choice at this point either.

So he did, and choice words immediately began to spill from his lips.

“Oh God, ohh God. Fuck. Fuck!” He took a few steps back, holding his head in his hands. “Oh, come on! Are you serious?!”

There, before him, laid another man. His eyes were peacefully closed, and his long, dark, messed up hair framed his face. His jawline had a dark bruise on it, and a trail of blood travelled from one nostril down his chin. A slightly ripped shirt exposed a few more bruises on his abdomen.

Staring at the body, Lance’s heart beat violently against his ribcage, and all of his muscles tightened out of fear. He didn’t want to move or breath, because now he was at a total loss again. Was he supposed to call the police? Why did it have to be a body? A severed leg would have been so much easier. Those didn’t have faces.

Thinking that, Lance swallowed and pursed his lips. He looked so peaceful, as if he wasn’t aware that he was dead, which he wasn’t. It was sad, really sad, and Lance tore his eyes away from the gruesome sight. He pressed his head against the cool brick wall and tried to calm himself down so he could think rationally.

“I’m not getting paid enough for this,” he pathetically whispered, voice cracking. “Actually, just for this, I deserve a raise. A huge raise! No, I deserve paid time off, because I’m so damn traumatized right now that I’m gonna have nightmares for weeks!”

That actually didn’t sound so bad.

If the guy weren’t dead, Lance would have thanked him.

“This is so bad,” he muttered, glancing back at the body and feeling his stomach curl. “You know, I’m actually a pretty okay guy. I don’t think I deserve this.” Pushing himself off the wall, he approached the body again and leaned over him slightly, nose scrunching up. The guy reeked of garbage. “Like, I’ve done some shitty things in my life. I get that. I’m trying to make up for it! I feel like I’ve been punished enough, but I’m given a dead guy?”

Dragging his fingers through his hair, Lance heaved out a sigh and turned his phone on, figuring that now was probably a good time to call the police. He felt bad, really. Someone out there just lost someone very important, whoever the guy was to them. He knew how they would feel, he knew how long it would take to stop hurting.

“Poor guy,” he muttered, tapping a few buttons on the screen.

His fingers froze, though, when he heard a quiet groan.

Stock-still, he glanced around, hoping that maybe it was his ears playing a trick on him, or just some hungry alley cat. Then he looked to the man at his feet, and though he had finally calmed down, his heart began to beat so fast that it could have won the Kentucky Derby. The man’s fingers twitched.

Stiff with fear, Lance felt sweat begin to bead on his forehead, and he clenched his hands into fists as a nervous laugh left him. It wasn’t like he was an avid believer in the zombie apocalypse or anything, but he definitely didn’t have proof to disprove it either.

“N-Nice boy,” he squeaked, holding his hands up defensively. “I’m not--”

“Ugh…”

“Oh.”

He was alive.

Relief hit Lance so hard that it could have knocked him out, but no one needed to go through what he just had. Putting a hand to his chest, he breathed out and went to the man, kneeling beside him and lifting him carefully, hoping there wasn’t anything internally wrong with him.

Lance watched him for a few moments, noticing that his breathing was shallow, but otherwise normal. A smile tugged at the corners of Lance’s lips and he brushed the man’s bangs from his eyes, noticing that they were starting to flicker open.

“Hey,” Lance greeted. “You okay, man? You got pretty roughed up, by the looks of it.”

The man didn’t respond, instead staring up at the inky night sky with eyes that matched it, his mouth slightly open with shock. He slowly ran his tongue over his bottom lip, licking up the blood that was there, then turned his head a bit to look at Lance.

“Don’t move too much,” Lance told him, supporting the back of his head and feeling for any bumps. He felt the man wince at his touch, and Lance clicked his tongue. “Hoo boy, that’ll hurt in the morning. Even worse than it does now.”

What he was saying didn’t seem to totally register with the man, as he simply just stared blankly up at Lance with wide eyes. Lance laughed and waved a hand in front of his face.

“You’re lucky,” he said. “I thought you were a goner. Do you need to go to a hospital? Just answer when you can.”

Lance would wait all night if it meant helping someone in need, and if it also meant getting away from work for a bit. He was just a good person like that.

Slowly, the stranger lifted his trembling hand. Lance watched him expectantly, but tensed when fingers brushed at his cheek. They were calloused and warm. Without thinking, Lance clutched at the hand, his prior humor beginning to wane as he began to think that maybe something was seriously wrong.

“Hey, can you hear me?”

“You--” The man coughed suddenly, cutting himself off. Lance waited it out, and when he was done, he breathed in and winced at whatever pain shot through him. He continued, though, looking at Lance again. “You…”

“Yeah? What is it?”

They were both silent, a gentle breeze blowing through the alley and temporarily alleviating the smell of garbage. Lance held the stranger’s gaze and threaded his fingers into his hair, helping him to sit up a little bit more. Still, nothing was said, and Lance was starting to think that calling an ambulance would be the best course of action.

A thought popped into his head. “Hey, I know what’ll make you feel better. A joke-- My name is Lance, and since I’m with you right now, I’m _technically_ your ambu _LAN_ \--”

“Your breath seriously stinks.”

And then he was out like a light.

Stunned, Lance kneeled there, cradling the man in his arms like he would a small child. No sounds seemed to reach him, and all he could really do was stare at the face of this bruised and beaten person who had just insulted him in cold blood.

At that moment, Lance reflected on everything he had just gone through, and a single thought ran through his head.

_Yeah, I definitely don’t get paid enough for this._

So he dropped the man back onto the pavement and stood, dusting off his pants with a short huff. He placed his hands on his hips and nudged the unconscious man with his foot and said, “My breath is minty fresh, asshole.”

He returned to the restaurant with a heavy frown, passing a few of his coworkers and going straight back to sweeping. He felt disgruntled and more than a little humiliated, running his tongue over his teeth to see if they tasted weird. The others watched him carefully, and Daniel was the one to finally approach him.

“Hey, Lance?”

“What.”

Daniel pursed his lips. “Are you like… Okay?”

Lance stopped sweeping at the question, feeling his heart stutter. No, he wasn’t, but these guys didn’t need to know that.

Turning to Daniel with a low hum, Lance nodded. “Yeah, I’m fine man. It was just…”

A dead body, a zombie, and a horribly rude stranger. It sounded like the opening line to a very elaborate, very bad joke, and Lance was definitely not in the mood to relive that story.

“It was just a stray cat. No biggie.”

***

After a long week at work, weekends were more or less his salvation. With his head against his soft, cool pillow, he turned onto his side and drew up his blanket a little further, breathing out a content and sleepy sigh. He silently thanked a greater power that he was actually allowed to turn his alarm off that morning.

Just as he was drifting back into his dream, though, his phone began to vibrate on his bedside table, a familiar ringtone making him jerk violently. In his sleep depriven state, he almost chose to ignore it, but he knew good and well that if he did, he wouldn’t hear the end of it the next time he answered.

So, groggy and disjointed, Lance sat up on his elbow and reached for his phone. He stared at the screen for a second, hesitant, then sighed and mentally prepared himself before answering.

“Hey, Mom.”

“Lance! Good morning! Did you sleep well?”

Lance glanced at the clock, which read too early for anyone with the day off to be awake, and he scowled. “Yep. Just fine. I was just about to make coffee.”

Saying that, he threw his covers off and swung his legs over the side of his bed, feeling a few bones crack back into place as he stood and stretched. Going to the blinds, he opened them and squinted at the sunlight that poured in.

“Just coffee?” his mother asked, clicking her tongue in distaste. “I wish you would eat some breakfast instead of relying on just that.”

In the years he’d spent living apart from his mother, her voice had become some kind of blurred line between a curse and a blessing. Lance listened to her gentle scolding with little interest, blinking the sleep from his eyes and covering his mouth to hide a yawn.

“Don’t worry, Mom. I’ll make something. Promise.” Putting his slippers and robe on, he left the bedroom and started on his coffee, then turned on the TV so he could watch the morning news.

“That’s my boy,” she hummed. “But, Lance?”

“Hmm?”

“It’s been a while since you’ve called.”

Oh, there it was. Lance felt his heart clench at her words.

It wasn’t like he was avoiding talking to her. At least, not as much as she thought he was. Time just seemed to slip away from him at any given point, and anymore, he was returning home too late to justify giving her a ring. He knew good and well that she wouldn’t have minded, but he also knew that he’d already troubled her enough as it was.

“I know it, Mom.”

“Are you doing alright?”

Her worried tone made him frown, but he forced himself to smile. “Yeah, I’m fine. You worry waaay too much, y’know that?”

She huffed at the accusation. “I’m your mother. It’s my job.”

Laughing, Lance turned down the volume on the TV and relaxed back into his sofa. “Yeah, sure. But, I mean, I’m gettin’ kinda old for you to be calling to check up on me like this.”

“ _Well_ ,” she said, faking offense, “it’s not like you have a pretty wife to do it for you.”

“Ouch, Mom! You know right where it hurts me the worst!”

They laughed together, then Lance stood and went to go pour his coffee as the maker went off. He heard his mother shuffling around on the other line, and he could tell from her prolonged silence that there was something she wanted to say. He spoke before she could.

“How’s Dad?” he asked, stirring cream and sugar into his mug. “He hasn’t nearly poked out his eye again, has he?”

His mother snorted at the idea. “Thankfully, no. Poor thing has been working himself to the bone lately, though. He was saying something about moving out of state to a place where he could find new jobs, but we’ve only just really gotten settled here, so…”

She trailed off, and Lance frowned again, knowing that his dad wasn’t getting any younger. At this point, he had hoped his parents would be enjoying themselves with a smooth retirement, but life wasn’t so picturesque in the end. Everyone needed the money.

He set his spoon down and stared at his reflection in the coffee with a growing pain in his chest. He had to work harder. For them.

“Lance?”

“Huh?” Head snapping up, he apologized weakly to his mother. “Sorry, sorry… I’m still waking up.”

She hummed before speaking again, her tone nervous and making Lance wish that he didn’t make her feel that way. “Have you been getting enough rest lately?”

He inwardly groaned at the question, knowing that more would follow. “Yes, Mom--”

“What about eating? Have you been eating properly? It hasn’t been just a bunch of fast food, has it?”

Pursing his lips, Lance put a hand to his temple and rubbed, holding in a sigh that threatened to reveal just how aggravated he was growing. He didn’t want her to think that he found her annoying, but when all of their conversations took this depressing turn, he couldn’t help but feel that it was getting way too repetitive.

“ _Yes_ , Mom, I’ve been eating just fine.” As long as he ignored the countless Taco Bell bags that littered his trash can. “You don’t always have to worry about me--”

She was quiet then, and his stomach curled, sure he had offended her in some way. A battle of apologies began to play around in his head, but before he could tell her, she spoke.

“I wish I was still there with you, Lance. You have no idea how lonely it is here.”

Her words were like a painful slap of reality, and he was suddenly too aware of just how empty his apartment was, despite having lived there for almost four years now. All he really had to remember her by was the old couch she had given him the day he moved in, her pictures he had so gently hung on the wall, and her voice that he had made a habit of avoiding.

His eyes began to sting and he didn’t crave the coffee anymore. Swallowing down a knot that lodged itself in his throat, he stepped out of the kitchen and lifted the sleeve of his robe to rub away any tears that threatened to fall, glaring at the dark stains they left in the fabric.

When had he become like this? He just didn’t know.

“Hey, Mom?”

“Yes?”

“I’ll send money at the end of the month, so I’ll text you when I do--”

“Oh, Lance, how many times have I--”

Lance laughed to disguise just how anxious he was starting to feel. “And how many times have I told you not to worry about it? Anyways, I have to get ready for work, so…”

She was silent, but he could hear the resolve in her tone when she said, “Okay, dear. Call me when you find the time, alright? I love you so much, Lance.”

Smiling to himself, he hummed, “I love you too, Mom. Talk to you later.”

After hanging up, he stared at the phone in his hand, then set it down on his coffee table and flopped onto his couch. He felt exhausted, more so than he had before. Covering his eyes with an arm, he breathed out a weary sigh.

He felt guilty for lying to her, for not being able to be more of a comfort, and he wished she could be there with him too. They were both so undeniably lonely. They had been for a long time now. There were missing pieces in their worlds, and back when he was a teenager, she had been the only rock he really had.

The most he could do was send a piece of his hard work to her, at least until he felt that he had paid them back what he owed.

Thinking that, he groaned and slapped his hands roughly against his cheeks, it taking a few moments before the pain that stung his skin began to subside. He hissed to himself and squeezed his eyes shut.

“Lance,” he breathed. “Lance, my man. You’re twenty-five now. You’ve been twenty-five for like, four months. You gotta stop being a ninny! Man up, man! It’s time! No more crying! And no more Taco Bell!”

He wasn’t sure if he could hold to that last promise.

Sitting up, he stood and stomped his way over to his coffee mug, taking a few hefty gulps of it before slamming (gently placing) it down on the counter again. He huffed a few times, then rubbed his cheeks where they still felt numb.

“Okay! Mail time!”

Adulting time, otherwise known as the routine he had been following for the past three years of his life. Nothing special, but boy did that coffee have a kick. He felt like he could take on the world! Or at least take on Mrs. Henderson’s evil chihuahua that really had a thing for his ankles.

Throwing his front door open, he breathed in the obnoxiously warm air and put on the biggest grin he could conjure up. Parading out to the mailboxes, he greeted one of his elderly neighbors with a nod of the head and a short, “Great weather today, Mrs. Horton!”

She returned his smile and patted his arm. “As eager as ever, aren’t you dear?”

“You know it! That’s just me! Good ol’ happy Lance!”

Except even that short of a conversation made him feel nothing but exhausted. The desire to crawl back into bed and kind of die for the rest of the day was pretty prominent, and honestly, he’d probably follow through with it. He just had to sort through the junk mail first.

Unlocking his box, he dug inside for the envelopes, ready for rolled up magazines that he didn’t remember subscribing to and dirty liars that told him he had won a free cruise.

Instead, he found another name, one that certainly did not read Lance McClain.

Narrowing his eyes at the printed letters on the back of the envelope, he hummed suspiciously, checked that he had the right mailbox, then returned to humming suspiciously.

“Okay,” he said. “Keith. Keith… Keeeith…”

Nope, didn’t ring a bell.

“Who even names their kid Keith anymore?” He laughed to himself, then pursed his lips. “Keith… Ko… Kooo… Huh.”

Keith Kogane.

“How do you even say this?” he asked the air. “Ko-guh-nay?”

He didn’t hear the approaching footsteps. Rubbing his chin, deep in thought, he started to wonder where his own mail was.

“Keith. Keith, Keith, Keith.” He almost considered asking one of the other neighbors if they had heard of the guy before, but a hand on his shoulder halted his train of thought.

He turned and met the oddly familiar but horribly intense gaze. Behind him, standing just a few measly centimeters shorter, was another man whose lips were twisted in a scowl, and hair that Lance didn’t even want to talk about.

And then there was a bruise, fading, but still noticeable, that lay on the man’s jawline.

Staring each other down, Lance began to feel _kind of_ nervous, because what kind of stranger approaches you, _touches_ you, then says jack shit? Thinking that, he took a step back, his brows knitted together.

“Uh…”

“You have my mail.”

“Oh.” Looking at the envelopes he held, Lance huffed out a laugh. “So you’re Keith, eh? We haven’t met--”

Lifting his head, his smile fell as something in the back of his mind told him to open his eyes. He stared at Keith for an inappropriate amount of time, and Keith stared back, his lips drawn into a thin line. If it was a contest he was looking for, Lance would have been happy to oblige, because no one could handle looking into his blue beauties for too long, but that wasn’t the matter at hand right now.

Eyes wandering back to the bruise on Keith’s jaw, Lance hummed lowly, cocking his head to the side as his gaze narrowed. There was something familiar about the placement, about the strands of hair that fell around it, and it wasn’t much longer before Lance realized that he was definitely face to face with the zombie-not-zombie stranger that he had so heroically saved (and then ditched) the other night.

Jaw dropping, Lance raised his index finger and pointed it straight at Keith’s face as he stuttered out a few ineligible words. Keith, really just wanting for Lance to hand over his mail, tilted his head at the odd reaction.

Finally, Lance found his voice and shouted, “It’s you! The dead guy!”

“Dead guy?”

“Yeah, the dead guy!”

No, wait, that wasn’t right.

Shaking his head, Lance stepped closer to Keith, eyes wide with wonder. “Okay, the alive but totally knocked out guy! From the other night!”

With each step Lance took forward, Keith took one back, holding up his hands a little defensively. “The other night?”

“Yes!” Lance nodded eagerly, but then he started to feel a little pissed off. “Now stop repeating me and listen to what I have to say, okay?”

“Okay.”

Oddly compliant.

Taking a step back, Lance crossed his arms over his chest and read the envelope’s name again. “So, Keith.”

Keith nodded.

“About a week ago, do you remember waking up in a pile of garbage bags. By a dumpster. In an alley.”

Keith grimaced at the memory and nodded again.

“Okay. Now then.” Lance took a step closer, for effect. “Do you remember waking up in the arms of an incredibly handsome man?”

Lance expected another nod, but none came. He decided to give Keith a minute-- If their prior meeting was anything to go by, it seemed to take this guy a while to actually process new information, and Lance understood that! He had been _awful_ at history back in the day.

But then again, Keith had been sporting a pretty sizable bump on the back of his head at that time. That was excuse enough to not understand what Lance had been saying.

It _wasn’t_ excuse enough to forget _all_ about him.

Feeling his body grow warm with anger, Lance stepped forward again and shoved Keith’s mail roughly against his chest. “You seriously don’t remember?! What the hell, man! I cradled you! In my arms!”

Taking the mail, Keith looked between it and Lance, put off, confused, and more than a little nervous. He furrowed his brows. “In your arms?”

“That’s right! In my arms! And you know what else, buddy?” Lance broke out into a smile, despite how his teeth were grinding together. He slung an arm around Keith’s shoulders. “This one is the kicker! You even had the gall to _insult_ me! You were beaten to a bloody pulp and you _still_ had to point out that my breath smelled like shit--”

Lance sputtered, then regained his composure.

“Nevermind that. _Anyways_ \--”

Apparently done with this awkwardly close conversation, Keith suddenly pulled away from Lance and shoved him back, but, as per Lance’s typically ungraceful nature, Keith found a few knuckles flying right at the healing bruise. He yelped and held his jaw, Lance staring at him with wide eyes after regaining his balance.

About to apologize, he stopped himself when he noticed just how trashed Keith actually looked. The bruise on his jaw wasn’t the only one; there were a few lingering marks wrapped around his neck, looking uncomfortably like long and slender fingers. His busted lip wasn’t a pretty sight, either, and his hair, greasy and tied back in a loose ponytail, was a frayed mess that hardly helped to cover the dark circles that painted the skin under his eyes.

Lance caught himself staring, but managed to snap himself out of the trance. He swallowed, then said, “Those are some pretty nasty bruises you got there.”

Tensing at the mention, Keith’s hand flew up to touch at them, but then he adjusted his grey hoodie until it covered the marks. The beds of his fingernails were stained black. “Whatever--”

“Hey, man, don’t be shy about it.” Lance smiled at him, momentarily forgetting his anger. “It’s alright. Everyone gets into fights. Now then--” He stepped closer with a hand outstretched, his fingers nearly brushing the bruised skin, but Keith was quick to avoid him.

“Don’t touch me,” he muttered. “Thanks for giving me my mail. Bye.”

Lance, not exactly used to rejection, or at least not rejection as obvious as this, stood stunned for a few moments, then turned on his heel so he could follow Keith back towards the complex. “Hey, wait a second! You don’t gotta run away!”

But Keith did, picking up his pace and digging in his pocket until he produced one of the issued apartment keys. Lance, not keen on being ignored, used what God gave him and let his long legs do the catching up. He grabbed Keith’s shoulder and tried to speak to him again, but the words died on his tongue as he ended up gawking at the door that was situated oh so conveniently right next to his own.

“We’re neighbors?” Lance asked.

Keith shrugged. “Guess so. Let go.”

“So someone actually lives here! Wow!” He turned to Keith with a broad grin, taking the opportunity to sling an arm around his shoulders again. “Man, when I heard someone new moved in, you have no idea how many times I came and tried to talk to ya! But you were never home! Must be a really busy guy, huh--”

The click of a door opening interrupted Lance, and it took a moment for him to realize that Keith had somehow escaped his hold. Standing behind his door as if he were using it as some kind of shield, Keith glared at Lance.

“Thanks for the mail,” he said again. “And cute slippers.”

And then he disappeared into his apartment, leaving Lance outside, alone, clad in only a robe and his favorite kitten slippers.

Stunned, it was a few seconds before he began to feel a warmth creep up his neck, his toes wiggling in the slippers and his hands clenching at his sides. Pounding one fist against Keith’s door, he fumed, “They were a _gift_ , you asshole!”

**Author's Note:**

> Enjoy my Taco Bell agenda.  
> This is my first time writing KLance, and it's different from the usual pairings I write. I felt a lot of freedom in how I could be more silly with my style. Lance is fun to write! His way of speaking is entertaining.  
> It's been a while since I've worked on a multichapter fic, so we'll see how this goes. I have faith that I'll finish it, because my editor would kick my ass otherwise. I feel that as the fic continues, I'll gradually add a few more tags. We'll see!  
> Big thank you to Sarah and Maria for helping me edit, and to my friends that let me ramble to them about my ideas.  
> I hope all who read this first chapter will enjoy it!


End file.
